Water Tower
I’ve been stuck on a water tower for thirteen days and counting. We’d planned on a sort of contingency and they sent me up with three ration kits, a radio, four boxes of shells, a scoped Springfield, and a sleeping bag. It was meant to be a cleanup mission but like so many of these strategies it wound up being a massacre. The enemy swarmed the perimeter and had taken everyone down in less than two hours. I went through three boxes of shells when I realized I was shooting my own team and it was hopeless. There must be at least a thousand of them down there now. All my firing did was to broadcast my location all over the freakin’ town. Now the noise is a constant howl that’s only slightly broken by the wind.
I don’t even know if home base is still secure; I haven’t been able to get anyone on the radio. My only consolation is that I won’t run out of water and the enemy lacks the dexterity to climb this high. I watched one get all of ten rungs up the ladder when a sudden gust of wind blew it right off. I can see the break in the fence where they first started to pour through. Never trust a forty-year-old fence that hasn’t been maintained against an entire mob of those soulless, walking abominations. There were less than a hundred when it broke open; what the hell would it have done against a thousand?
The plan was to take to high ground and this was probably the highest point in town. There were ten of us when we first set up a perimeter. We knocked off the first few easily enough and locked ourselves in the fenced area around the water tower. Then we set up barricades around the base and I climbed up to snipe what I could from a distance. A sweeper team was supposed to wait on the outskirts of town to await our signal. When the mob came to us all safe and snug behind that fence, the sweepers would begin to flank them and the rest would just be cleanup. We totally underestimated the size of this “small” town. As I fired from the tower, every zombie in earshot and line of sight with the water tower came for us. The gate gave way first and while my team focused their fire on the compromised spot they didn’t notice the weak point right behind them. The fence gave way and fifty more poured in. I don’t even know what happened to the sweepers. Never heard from them, never saw them. Nobody answered my distress calls.
I’ve been taking pot shots every now and then to relieve the boredom. What does it matter that there’s no way in hell I’ll get out of this alive? At best I’ll find out the radio never worked and they’ll hear my gunfire. At worst I’ll save one bullet. Then again, I am awfully high. I’m sure the fall would kill me instantly. Maybe I’ll take a nice, graceful, swan dive right into that rancid pool of congealed blood that used to be my friends. But isn’t that tenacious will to live a kick in the ass? Even in the face of walking horror, completely outnumbered without enough ammunition to clear a path, I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll go to hell for committing suicide? Maybe I’m just a coward.
It’s starting to look like rain. I’ll probably die of exposure before I starve to death. At least depression keeps my mind off food, though my stomach might disagree with me at this point. I have just a few crackers left, and a can of sardines. I hate sardines…